


only say my name (it will be held against you)

by charleybradburies



Category: A Song of Ice and Fire & Related Fandoms, A Song of Ice and Fire - George R. R. Martin, Game of Thrones (TV)
Genre: (at least sort of), Alternate Universe - Canon Divergence, Badass Arya, Based on a Tumblr Post, Body Image, Body Worship, Canon Related, Emotional Hurt/Comfort, Established Relationship, Eventual Sex, F/M, Foreplay, Hurt/Comfort, Kissing, Love, Making Love, Making Out, One Shot, POV Gendry, Praise Kink, Romance, Scars, Season/Series 08, Self-Esteem Issues, Sex, True Love, Understanding, Undressing, Winterfell
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2019-06-03
Updated: 2019-06-03
Packaged: 2020-04-07 01:02:34
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 1,720
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/19074310
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/charleybradburies/pseuds/charleybradburies
Summary: Gendry kissing Arya's scars. That's it; that's thepostfic.(I jest; that's notquitethe whole thing. Just...almostthe whole thing.)Set post-8.03.[title from fall out boy's "just one yesterday"]





	only say my name (it will be held against you)

**Author's Note:**

> Please enjoy, kudos, and comment!

Despite Arya's continued insistence that she was no true hero, and that she'd done nothing for want of praise, she lets Gendry worship her - and worship her he gladly does. The ecstasy of it helps him forget he shouldn't really have the right to, but who was Gendry to deny her anything, whether anyone else would think it right of him or not? If she'd rather him beneath her or on his knees before her than cheers and songs from the rest of Winterfell, well...he would happily oblige. 

With how little she seemed to trust people now, surely it meant more when praise was from someone she cared for, anyway. After all, in the aftermath of her victory for Winterfell, she'd been appreciative of thanks, and paid little attention to congratulations, but beamed when her siblings lauded her. Even Sers Davos and Brienne got smiles from her, an achievement not granted to other, even less Northern people, aside from Gendry, who could proudly know that her smiles for him were different entirely. 

Besides, while he could not deny he was somewhat biased, she was the most spectacular, most beautiful woman in the world - "to him," she'd claimed, any time he'd said as much so far, but someday, perhaps, she'd lose the urge to challenge him on that. He's certainly stubborn enough to make the point for even longer than that might take, and he makes it any time he gets the chance.

She could find a hundred things to dislike, and he would love them all with passion: her long face, pale skin, short, dark hair, small breasts, and often, her scars. They were over much of her body, strips both short and long of healed and healing skin that stood out from the rest, and Arya either hated them or seemed to ignore them. For Gendry, they still roused concerns on occasion, but they never did take away from her beauty any more than any else of her. She seemed to prefer him to ignore them, though, always intentionally drawing his attention away at any moment he laid focus on one of them, so for the most part he keeps his hands and eyes on the rest of her. (It's not as though he doesn't love the rest; he does quite dearly.)

Then one evening he returns to her chambers - she's had him sharing them for almost a month, but it's hard to think of such nice accommodations as being _his_ \- to find her, cloaked in a thin robe with her hair damp and let down, running her hands over the scars at her sides. 

Tears are looking to brim her eyes but not quite doing it; his own face falls, and she makes note of him.

"Don't say it," she growls, knowing he sees beauty in her. Part of him bucks at the command, but another wants to beg her to understand. 

She is his lady, though, and she is despairing, and he won't disobey her, certainly not directly. Instead, he takes as close to a middle path as he can find. As soon as he is close enough to her, he cups the hand against her side with his. She tenses, but even when he drops his head to press a kiss atop the nearly-healed wound on her forehead, she gives no actual indication she intends to stop him, only a gentle sigh.

So Gendry _doesn't_ stop.

It's usually Arya who takes control, even when he's the first to make moves, but tonight she leans into him, moaning into his mouth as it takes hers, wet and deep and needy. When he's started to get hard enough that he's sure she's noticed, she reaches for the top of his tunic, and he yanks it over his head, pulling just far enough away from her to manage it before standing himself against her again. She tips her head in expectation of a kiss, and he gives a short one. She grumbles when he takes his lips away from hers, only to begin to gasp a second later when he presses them to her neck. They travel lightly to her shoulder, and she tilts her head towards his, stifling any other reaction even as he peppers the region with dry kisses, taking longer only upon the single scar there, a line so light he's like to be the only other person to know it's there, that remnant of Braavos. 

She shivers, and drops the robe, letting it sink to the cold stone floor below them. Gendry wills himself to continue despite the distraction of the rest of her, and kisses his way down her arm to another Braavosi scar. He's sure she realizes what he intends, but she offers the slightest resistance - nimble fingers finding purchase at the top of his breeches, grabbing hold of the strings that would undo him. He grips her hand and pushes it back towards her stomach before she can untie their knots, and she looks at him with half-feigned surprise.

She _wanted_ him - and he, her - but that was not what this moment was. She trusted lust more than his adoration of her, but it was not his lust that was greater, and she should know it. 

He moves to sit atop the trunk at the end of the bed, twining his fingers in hers just enough to pull her after so she follows. She comes to stand just in front of him, licking her lips, and yet her eyes are full of curiosity more than desire when he meets them. He kisses at her collarbone next, another small scar Gendry only knows from having the privilege to be so close to her, this one jagged like a flash of lightning. 

He trails his mouth over to her right side, cupping a hand underneath her left breast as he kisses the right, wet lips against the scar beneath her nipple drawing whines from her. He swirls his tongue about the nipple itself, finding it hard, and Arya wraps her hand around the back of his neck to keep him pressed to her, her chest moving with her whimper. For as much as he adores her strength, he holds this dear, too, that for all her hatred of vulnerability she can stand before him and know that she is safe when it's him - his hands, his lips - upon her. 

He leans further forward, sliding his hands down her back, one to the small of it and the other to cup one of the cheeks of her arse. She was grown, of course, yet still so small in some ways. With a kiss against her belly he feels himself ache to make her less so in others, but he persists in his mission, and takes his mouth right to the spots that showed where the Waif of Braavos had stabbed her, the worst of which it's still easy to imagine could have bled the life out of her. But she had been good to someone, and they were good in return as people should be, and she got to come home. Gendry recalls how she'd almost cried speaking of Lady Crane, the first time he'd dared ask her to speak about any of the scars. Even now, she trembles - but she doesn't push him away, instead running her fingers against his hair. 

He moves to kiss even further down, and she slings her other arm over his shoulder, making the task easier for him. He isn't looking at her face, but thinks she's looking at his and can tell that he smiles, because she chuckles only a moment after he does. He bends down just a bit more, and then pauses, and decides against it, wrapping one arm underneath her legs and the other around her waist, and hoisting her up. Arya gasps, first, at the sudden change, but as she clasps her hands behind his neck a giggle escapes her. He carries and puts her on the bed easily, letting her pull him into a kiss as they lay down. Keeping her from having him undressed only a moment later is a more difficult task, for even leaning over his lover he has no intention of truly restraining her; he grabs her hands as though he is to hold them, and she growls as he presses them down into the furs to keep them off of him. 

"Gendry," she whines, desperate and high-pitched, and it almost breaks his resolve. 

_Almost._

He continues down the front of her body again, quickly for the first moment, until he's reached her waist. He spaces out the next few kisses, down to her hips, and pushes himself back on the bed to more easily kiss the scars on her legs. A couple on each calf, and one that had clearly been deep on the front of one thigh, and for that one Arya truly trembles at his kisses. It is not even the gesture itself, he knows, for he can smell her arousal, the sweet scent of her watering his mouth, so close to drawing him in. Yet for the needy noises she makes, she still does not make him stop, and he pulls himself up her again, for what's like to be the night's last time. 

She insists on grasping his nearest hand when his kisses are at the scars on her waist, and he holds both it and her other side gladly. She pushes her closest leg up against his hardness, though, making it Gendry's turn to release a whine; he keeps his mouth where knives had entered her side for only another moment before he abruptly gives into her, replacing it with their joined hands and positioning his body entirely over hers. Her still-wet mouth eagerly pulls his into another deep kiss, and she reaches for the strings of his breeches yet again, this time not allowing the possibility he'll deny her the right to undo them.

She shoves them down his legs, wrapping her hand around his length; he bothers only to slip a finger into her wetness, just to be certain.

"Please," she whimpers, the word caught inside both their mouths.

The next sounds, too, are muffled; still kissing, neither of them stifles their moan as he obliges and pushes into her.


End file.
